**DAMIEN**
I stare in horror at the bright purple goo oozing over the rim of my mug, thick and syrupy as it drips down onto the countertop. It glows faintly in the dim kitchen light. GLOWS, because of course it does, and I watch in frozen disbelief as it starts to spread.
“Shit.” I curse. Panic kicks in. I twist the knob thing back, hoping to shut the thing down, but nothing happens. I try again. Still nothing. In a final act of desperation, I lunge around the back and yank the cord out of the wall. The machine sputters, whines, and finally goes silent. I sag against the counter with a heavy sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Or so I think, until I look down. The entire front of my shirt is soaked in purple goo. It’s sticky, and worse, it ITCHES. I look like I’ve rolled in some radioactive goop from a kids tv show or something. Like the glowing purple should be a clear indication of ‘touching this is a stupid thing to do.’ Maybe those cartoons have the right idea.
“Damn it.” I hiss as I claw at the fabric, pulling it away from my stomach. I half jog to the sink, hoping I can rinse it out before it gets any worse. What’s best for removing weird coffee machine goo? Hot water or cold water? I take a guess and pick hot water and start trying to clean it up. But the more I scrub, the more it spreads, neon and relentless. It’s like trying to clean up glitter with a fan. Grumbling, I head for the door. I should have a spare shirt in my locker. I don’t think that this one will come clean. I might just burn it or something. I’m halfway through the doorway when a familiar soft whirring starts up behind me. I stop. Turn. The coffee machine, the UNPLUGGED coffee machine, has powered itself back on. And it’s dripping purple goo again. More of it this time. Enough to start pooling on the kitchen floor. My jaw drops.
“You have GOT to be kidding me.” I mutter. I step back into the room, flustered and shirt still clinging to me dripping wet and uncomfortable. I stare at the machine, the thing is now somehow smug looking despite being an inanimate object, and I can feel my last shred of patience snap. I close the kitchen door shut with a solid thunk. Nope. Absolutely not. I am not letting anyone else see me lose a battle to a damn coffee maker. I will die on this hill alone. The itch is unbearable now. I curse under my breath, tug my shirt over my head, and fling it across the room with more drama than strictly necessary. Instant relief. Note to self. Don’t touch the goo. I glare at the still dripping machine and, in a petty act of revenge, grab my cursed shirt and shove it up under the spout to block the flow. It sort of works. Kind of. The goo’s slowed to a sad trickle, like the machine knows it’s been insulted but refuses to die with grace. I stand there, bare chested and pissed off, staring at this hunk of evil chrome, and realise there’s only one thing left to do. I am going to have to ask for help. Or light the damn thing on fire, but since I’m a firefighter, arson is kind of frowned upon and is usually not the recommended solution to my problems.
“Shit.” I mutter again, and for a moment I wonder if the machine just hummed in satisfaction. Fire might not be the solution here, but I’m starting to wonder if a sledgehammer might be.
So. Since I PROBABLY shouldn’t resort to fire or brute force to deal with a damn coffee machine, tempting as it is, I have to accept the inevitable. I need help. The question is… Who? I could ask one of the other firefighters. But no. No way. I would NEVER live it down. This place runs on caffeine, trauma bonding, and relentless teasing. If word got out that I was bested by an overdesigned espresso machine, they’d be putting that on my next birthday cake. I could call Rina. I bed she’d know what to do. But she’s probably working. And if she shows up, there’s a good chance Torin comes with her. I like the guy. I do. He’s solid. Protective. Good for her. But I’m not quite at the point where I want to be caught mid panic, shirtless, and covered in purple goo in front of him. There are limits. Which leaves… Eli. Heaven help me. He’ll definitely laugh at me. That’s just who he is. But he laughs at everyone, including himself, so it’s not mean. I also don’t think he would tell everyone. And honestly, he tells so many dramatic, exaggerated stories about everything and everyone that even if he DID tell someone, no one would take it seriously. ‘Damien vs. the coffee machine from hell’ would just become another tall tale in his ever growing library of nonsense, filed somewhere between ‘vampire tax audit’ and ‘accidental possession during karaoke night.’ But the thing is, he would show up. That’s one of the first things I ever noticed about Eli. At first, I couldn’t figure out why my sister trusted him so easily. Why she leaned on him. But it didn’t take me long to get it. He might be loud, sure. He fills a room. And yeah, he can be a lot at times. But when it matters? He’s there. No questions. No hesitation. Just there. He’s reliable, consistent and sure, maybe annoyingly persistent sometimes, but always present. And he’s comfortable in his own skin in a way that I honestly envy. He says what he wants. Acts how he wants. Doesn’t try to shrink himself or smooth out his edges. I wish I had that kind of ease with myself. I guess it helps that he’s an incubus. That kind of confidence comes naturally to someone who’s never really had to worry about being rejected.
Still. I am almost certain that if I call him, he’ll come. I pull out my phone. He’s number two on my speed dial. Mostly because he set it that way. Eli TRIED to make himself number one, but I put my foot down and told him there was no way he was replacing Rina. He acted betrayed for a whole afternoon, then dramatically ‘accepted’ second place with the kind of theatrical sigh that belongs in a bad soap opera. I don’t know why it mattered to him so much. I barely even use his number. He’s the one who calls me all the time. Actually… This might be the first time I’ve ever called him. I hope he’s not the type to bite my head off for waking him up at three a.m. Then again, knowing Eli, he’s probably still up, he’s probably randomly texting three people at once about completely unrelated topics. I have no idea how he keeps track of it all. Decision made, I hit the call button. Here goes nothing.
Eli answers on the first ring.
“Dami! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you’re calling me! It’s like, the middle of the night! Why are you even awake? Wait, aren’t you at work? I know you are, because I wrote down your schedule. Since you banned me from calling during work hours unless there’s an actual emergency. Don’t worry, no fire, death, or serious injury has happened. Not to me, anyway. But wait! That rule only counts when I’m the one calling you, right? You called me, so technically this doesn’t break the rule-" Eli rambles cheerfully.
“Eli-” I try, but it’s like trying to steer a hurricane.
“Oh! I was messaging Clare earlier, did you know she and Lukas are finally together? I mean, I thought they were together already, but apparently not? But now they are, and it’s kind of funny because-" I cut him off.
“Eli!” I snap, sharper than intended.
“Will you please stop talking for one second and let me speak? I need your help.” I blurt out. Silence. Eli doesn’t even breathe on the other end of the line. The silence is so sudden and complete it’s almost unnerving. I sigh, some of the tension finally bleeding out of me and I feel kind of guilty.I don’t usually mind Eli’s chatter. I’m just on edge.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bark. I’m just… It’s been a night.” I mutter.
“What do you need?” He says, voice quiet, calm, and completely devoid of teasing now. It’s startling how quickly he switches, how fast he sets all the chaos aside when it really matters. And that change is exactly why I called him.